


Must Play Chess

by TurtleTotem



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Inspired by Music, M/M, Personal Ads
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-18
Updated: 2013-03-18
Packaged: 2017-12-05 16:45:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/725548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TurtleTotem/pseuds/TurtleTotem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles would never have run a personals ad - that's all Raven's doing - but the man who answers does sound rather perfect...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Must Play Chess

**Author's Note:**

  * For [groovyphilia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/groovyphilia/gifts).



> Written for Charlie, who [asked for](http://ceilingcharles.tumblr.com/post/45214371495/groovyphilia-okay-so-basically-i-would-love-a) a Cherik AU inspired by the song "Personal" by Stars, which you can hear [here](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=--utoIbQyg4) or see the lyrics [here](http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/stars/personal.html).

_[Single male seeks single male — thirtysomething, intelligent, assertive. Must play chess. Mutants preferred. Reply to singlemutant1407@hotmail.com.]_

~~~　

“Raven, what is this? This isn’t funny.”

“What’s not funny is the way you’re still moping around six months after he left you.”

“You had no right — you know what, no, I’m not going to bother being angry. I’m going to let this disgusting joke cancel itself due to lack of interest.”

“Meaning you don’t think you’ll get any replies.”

“That’s not the point.”

~~~

**You have (1) new message.**

~~~

To: singlemutant1407@hotmail.com  
From: homosuperior@hotmail.com  
Subject: Reply to personal ad

I can’t quite believe I’m doing this, but why not. I meet all your requirements; my own are essentially the same. I haven’t dated since ending a long-term relationship some time back. Maybe this is the way to get started again. Drinks on Saturday?

 

To: homosuperior@hotmail.com  
From: singlemutant1407@hotmail.com  
Subject: Re: Reply to personal ad

Thank you for responding! I can understand your hesitance, I’m not at all sure about this either. But as you said, why not? It sounds as though we have a lot in common. I too am staggering forth from the wreckage of a failed relationship; I don’t mean to get too ‘heavy’ but I feel it’s best to be forthright. I hope we can both be patient with each other.

Drinks are fine if you prefer, but I thought we might meet at the park Sunday morning for a game of chess. I’ll bring the board. 8:00?

 

To: singlemutant1407@hotmail.com  
From: homosuperior@hotmail.com  
Subject: Re: Re: Reply to personal ad

8:00 is fine. How will I know you?

 

To: homosuperior@hotmail.com  
From: singlemutant1407@hotmail.com  
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Reply to personal ad

Let’s each wear a red rose in our lapels - can’t go wrong with the classics. ;) I look forward to meeting you.

 

~~~

 

_How did Emma talk me into this? I am not rea— I have no **interest** in dating again._ Erik wiped sweaty palms on his trousers as he walked through the park, and started fiddling with the rose on his lapel again, trying to straighten it. _Sure, he sounds perfe— great, but what do I know about him really? Nothing, and frankly it’s obvious he’s not over his ex, and this is just going to be an awkward waste of—_

Erik’s feet scraped to a stop on the sidewalk. He had, of course, been taking note of all the metal in the vicinity, all of it miscellaneous and irrelevant but _this,_ this block of intricate construction, framework and wheelspokes and that dent in the footrest...

He’d know Charles’s wheelchair anywhere.

Erik turned toward it. There was the gathering of chess tables, several yards away under the trees, populated by a few pairs of old men — and one younger, dark-haired head, a red rose blazing from his lapel.

Erik snatched off his own rose immediately, the pin stabbing his finger, and stepped behind a tree, heart galloping.

Was this Emma’s idea of a joke? Or Charles’s? What the devil was he supposed to do?

Go home, that was what. Go home, murder Emma, get back to his life, get back to figuring out his stupid life with no trace of Charles in it.

He peered very carefully around the tree. Yes, still Charles. He had the chessboard set up before him, white turned toward his guest, because that was the polite thing to do even though Charles much preferred to play white himself. That was his best coat, and he had clearly taken pains with his hair (the very sight of which triggered sensory memories that — _no, stop that)._ Somehow those raggedy old fingerless gloves had gotten past Raven; Erik couldn’t begrudge them, it was a chilly morning. Too chilly for Charles to be out, with his circulation problems, what was he thinking? Did he have enough blankets over his lap to keep his legs—

_It’s not your problem,_ Erik cut himself off fiercely. _Nothing about Charles is your problem anymore._

He told himself the stab of pain at that thought was from finally noticing the flower-pin stuck in his finger.

Charles checked his watch — it was 8:20 now; Erik had changed clothes three times and made himself late — and his expression flickered, anxiety and sadness and hope briefly escaping before a practiced smile covered them over.

How long would he wait, if Erik left? How long would he sit in the cold? And when no one came, and there was no reply to his next email, would he figure “homosuperior” just got cold feet about the whole dating situation? Or would he quietly assume, on some deep level unanswerable to logic, that his date took one look at him — at the wheelchair —　and bolted, just like all the idiots before Erik…

_Why didn’t you mention the wheelchair, Charles? It’s nothing to be ashamed of._ Erik didn’t at all mean to project that thought, but old habits died hard, and to his dismay Charles noticeably straightened in his seat, like a dog catching a scent.

Panicked, Erik turned and began striding quickly-but-casually in the opposite direction.

He hadn’t made it six steps before a low, sorrowful murmur in his head brought him to a halt. _Leaving so soon, my friend?_

Erik took a slow, steadying breath, turned and approached the chess table. Charles’s eyes widened as he dropped his rose onto the chessboard.

“Well,” he said in a strangled voice. “Well, that certainly explains — I should have known you were too—” Laughter overcame his words, and he half-collapsed onto the chessboard, shoulders shaking.

“I’m sorry I’m not who you were expecting,” Erik said stiffly, and turned to go.

“Erik, don’t be — Erik, your hand!” Charles gasped. “What happened?”

Belatedly, Erik saw that he was still bleeding from the pin-stick. “It’s nothing,” he said, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket to wrap around it.

“It’s never nothing to me when you’re hurt,” Charles muttered, taking charge of the handkerchief operation. When it was done, neither of them let go of the other’s hand.

“You don’t _have_ to go,” Charles said softly, not quite meeting Erik’s eyes. “We both came all this way for a game of chess, and I’d rather like to have mine.” He ventured a tentative smile, and it killed Erik to see Charles being tentative with him at all, Charles who had always talked and smiled and gestured and _loved_ so expansively.

Still, he hesitated. This was dangerous and uncertain ground they were treading. They had parted ways for very good reasons — for all that those reasons were curiously hard to recall right now — and it wouldn’t take much for them to, as Fitzgerald would put it, slip into an intimacy from which they’d never recover.

But who was he kidding? It was far too late to avoid that. And besides — he felt a crooked smile sneak across his face — they’d already established that they did, after all, meet all each other’s basic requirements.

Erik spun the board so Charles could have white, and sat down to play.


End file.
